


Intoxicating

by phantxmic



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Anxiety, Character Death, Distressed Anatole, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Letters, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mild Smut, Separation Anxiety, Smut, They Are Gay And In Love, War, even dolokhov is gay and sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 05:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14490147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantxmic/pseuds/phantxmic
Summary: ”You're kidding me!” Anatole scowled, “You were drafted? Fyodor, you can't go to war!”“I have no choice in the matter, Anatole.” Fedya had attempted to calm him, but even such a stoic man as Dolokhov couldn't hide his pre-war nerves. “The Czar chose me to go. If I didn't do as the Czar asked, I'd be exiled. Napoleon is becoming more headstrong than he has been and there's word of him planning to charge Moscow. We need as many men as we could.” He was already packing up his weapons and other necessities to go to war as a Kuragin manor servant prepared his horse, Anya, for him.Anatole was in a state of disbelief. His Fyodor - his Fedya - was going to war.





	Intoxicating

**Author's Note:**

> this is so bad but I really wanted to write for them

Letters upon letters piled up on Anatole Kuragin's desk. Each letter was signed messily by one man; Fyodor ‘Fedya’ Dolokhov. Anatole could only pick up partial scents from the letters; rain, ash, gunpowder, among others. He didn't know where he was. He didn't know if he was on the front lines. Where was his precious Fedya?

_”You're kidding me!” Anatole scowled, “You were drafted? Fyodor, you can't go to war!”_

_“I have no choice in the matter, Anatole.” Fedya had attempted to calm him, but even such a stoic man as Dolokhov couldn't hide his pre-war nerves. “The Czar chose me to go. If I didn't do as the Czar asked, I'd be exiled. Napoleon is becoming more headstrong than he has been and there's word of him planning to charge Moscow. We need as many men as we could.” He was already packing up his weapons and other necessities to go to war as a Kuragin manor servant prepared his horse, Anya, for him._

_Anatole was in a state of disbelief. His Fyodor - his Fedya - was going to war._

Anatole pushed himself out of his bed and draped his grey, silk robe daintily on his body. Despite being in an enormous state of exhaustion, he still managed to be as elegant as ever. 

Anatole remarked on how his poise and elegance was one of the things that won Fedya over. The way he glided across the floor as he entered the bar they first met in, how he hung his green coat so delicately on the coat rack, the way his blue eyes flickered across the dimly lit bar. Anatole sat right beside Fedya, and Fedya was entranced in the man. He examined him and watched his every move, the way his eyes lit up the area as the bartender slid him a glass of vodka, how his pink lips wrapped around the glass to drink. 

_”I've never seen you here before.” A man with black hair spoke suddenly and attracted Anatole’s attention. “New to town?”_

_“Came from Poland.” Anatole replied, his lips against the cool glass. Anatole examined the man and hummed. Dark black hair with a matching beard, tan….nish skin - at least for a Russian - and scars that he could only imagine were littered around his body. “Seems like you've been a few places.”_

_“War is hell.” The man spoke simply. “Do you have a name?”_

_“Anatole Kuragin.”_

_“Fyodor Dolokhov.”_

As Anatole made his way for the baths, he recollected more on that night they met. The servants hurriedly prepared a bath for him, exiting quickly to allow him time alone. That night had escalated rather quickly, he remembered as he sunk into the hot water. 

_”Fuck, Fyodor…” Anatole’s breathy moan obviously drove Fedya mad as he growled against his neck._

_Not even an hour went by and Anatole was here, laying in a stranger's bed while doing activities that typically only married couples would do._

_“Call me Fedya…” Fedya let out a loud grunt as he drove his hips hard into him._

_Anatole let out a cry in response, “F-Fedya! Harder, Fedya, fuck me harder…!”_

_“Oh you drive me absolutely mad, Anatole.” Fedya growled in his ear and thrusted sharply and roughly into him every few seconds._

_“Don't tease, I can't bear it when you tease…” Anatole pleaded to him, gripping to the soft sheets under him._

_“You may not be able to bear it, but you still love it, don't you?” Fedya cooed to him with a smirk._

_Anatole nodded quickly as his response, unable to give a vocal reply as Fedya quickened his pace._

Anatole spent a little too long in the bathtub but hastily exited as a servant knocked on the door to check in on him. He dismissed them and took time to dress himself before heading down the large staircase. 

“Master Anatole, a letter is here for you from Master Dolokhov.” A young servant raced into the manor, holding letters in her hand. “And one from Mistress Hélène, and one from Pierre Bezukhov!”

Anatole gratefully took the letters and retreated back to his room, opening them as soon as the door was closed. 

**Dear brother,**

**My absence will be longer than intended. Business with Miss Natalia has become much more important than returning home. I hope you can hold up the house yourself.**

**Dearest,  
Hélène**

Anatole sighed and flung the paper onto his desk. He hated being alone here. He understood completely what “business” Hélène had with Natasha and he did not want to interfere, no matter how high his level of loneliness may be. 

**Anatole,**

**Received word from Andrey that Dolokhov is alright. No major injuries to report. I'll let you know if that changes.**

**On another note, why don't you and I go down to the club later? You must get out of that house at some point, Anatole.**

**Your friend,  
Pierre.**

Anatole flung that letter onto the desk as well, sighing softly. While he agreed he should get out more, he simply didn't want to. With eagerness, Anatole opened the remaining letter. 

**My love,**

**We believe Napoleon and his troops are closing in on our camp. You know I will intend to be on the front lines if danger come. I will be as careful as I can, but if I die fighting, I let that be my legacy.**

**I think of you every night, dearest. How I wish I were home with you. I miss the warmth of your body against mine. It's cold out here, not even a fire can warm me like you can.**

**Write back soon.**

**Your soldier,  
Fedya**

Anatole scoffed through the tears brimming in his eyes as the letter concluded. He pulled his chair in and quickly wrote his response. 

**Fedya,**

**Do be careful. You needn't run into every line of fire you see.**

**No matter how many times I warn you, you insist on being affectionate in our letters. You understand how risky it is, yet you simply don't give a damn. But I miss you too. It's incredibly lonely in the manor, the only thing keeping me sane is the things you left here. I've decided your grey bathrobe is mine, by the way.**

**I pray you return soon. I'm longing for you more than ever.**

**Please be careful.**

**Ever yours,  
Anatole**

Anatole was quick to seal it in an envelope before any tears could spill on the parchment. That damned Napoleon, Anatole swore he'd kill him had he ever gotten the chance. The letter was hastily given to a servant to deliver and he sighed, leaning against the door frame. 

He thought of Dolokhov. His Dolokhov. How gruff and stoic he is, the scars littered along his toned body, he was the definition of handsome in Anatole's mind. Something about the roughness to the man just drove Anatole insane. He loved how cocky he was, always testing his luck in duels. He'd go into a duel nearly every night at the bar and win, but Anatole would always be the true winner that night. Fedya’s adrenaline from the thrill of a duel always translated into bed. 

God, Fedya. 

“My darling Fedya…”

“Master Anatole. You're daydreaming again.”

Anatole stared at the eldest servant standing before him and sighed, “Sorry, miss.”

“Fedya again?” She sighed and carried a basket full of laundry down the hall, Anatole scurried to follow her. 

“Who else would it be?” Anatole scoffed and kept his hands behind his back, watching her carefully. 

“How long has Master Dolokhov been at war?” The servant asked politely as she put away his clothes. 

“Nearly a year.” Anatole spoke through gritted teeth. Nearly a year without his love. How has he survived this long?

“Surely, he'll be back soon.”

He wasn't. 

Anatole lost contact with Fedya after that last letter. Anatole wrote daily to him and delivered his letters no matter what, but part of him was dying inside. Where was his Fedya? His mind went wild with anxiety and stress, he created scenarios of what could have happened. Some tame, some...terrible. Surely nothing bad happened, Fedya promise…

_”Fedya, please…” Anatole pleaded, “You can't go! It's too dangerous!”_

_“Anatole, I must. Czar requested of me and I plan to go.” Fedya cupped his cheek gently. “I'll write as much as I can.” He pet his cheek and sighed, trying to reassure him. Assurance didn't come quite easily, even Fedya couldn't hide the sadness in his voice._

_After a long pause of unsettling silence, Anatole murmured. “Promise you'll be safe…?”_

_“I promise, dearest.”_

“Master Anatole, a letter.” A servant entered his room and watched as his eyes light up with what little hope he had left. “A letter from the general.”

Anatole took the letter and examined it suspiciously, huffing. “You are dismissed.” As the servant exited the room, he examined the letter further and noticed some kind of weight in it. He opened the letter and pulled out a chain he recognized all too well. A necklace he had made for Fedya after one year of them being together. Anxiety grew inside of him as he pulled the letter out and opened it up. 

**Dear Mr Anatole Kuragin,**

**I regret to inform you-**

Anatole folded the letter up quickly. Fear came down upon him like a blade in his heart. He took deep yet ragged breaths before unfolding the letter once more. 

**Dear Mr Anatole Kuragin,**

**I regret to inform you that Fyodor Dolokhov has passed. He was killed on the front lines and died a true Russian soldier. His service was valued and he brought confidence to our troops.**

**His belongings are being sent to you via post and should arrive two days after this letter arrives.**

**My condolences,  
The General**

Anatole broke down in tears. His Fyodor - his Fedya - was dead. The only man who could bring happiness to his life was gone from this world. He crumpled on the bed and let out heavy sobs, clutching the letter and chain to his chest as he cried for Fedya. 

“Where are you, Fedya?” He cried in dismay, “Where are you?”

Perhaps he was only waiting for him on the other side.

“I'll be there, Fedya. I'll come back to you.”


End file.
